A close call enlarged and amended
by mike2000
Summary: An attempted murder. An encounter with the afterlife. And an intense street hockey match. What else a Squid can ask for? reedited and reposted
1. Chapter 1

**A CLOSE CALL**

Foreword:

This story was written over three years ago now, and it has given me a lot of satisfactions since it was first published on the Net. I am proud to say that this was the first, and maybe the only fully-featured Rocket Power novel out there. Now my friend and fellow author Scott prepared a new edition of this story, including more scenes and more details on some of the characters, in an attempt to clarify the events that happen here. Call it a "director's cut" if you will. This new version is perhaps stronger and much more graphical than the original version, so I think it should be rated as a PG-PG13 story.

Before beginning posting, I want to express my truest thankfulness to the co-author of this story, my friend Scott Sanchez, whose contributions really added up a lot to the plot. Thanks again, Scott!

**Chapter 1**

It was very early in the morning, and most Ocean Shores residents were still asleep. The tide was still high at sea, and the stars shone above. A full moon lit the darkened streets, and the only noise was that of the surf and the occasional, distant horn of a ship as it crossed in front of the pier and into the open ocean. The fishermen were returning from their nightly run, their holds full with the catch. From the distance, their lights seemed like little fireflies hovering over the black ocean.

Sammy was up, looking sadly through his window to the dark street outside and the sleeping houses of his friends. He had a bad night; first he could not sleep because his asthma had worsened, making it very difficult to him to breathe, and, when he was finally able to snooze, he had the same nightmare that had been haunting him the whole week. It was a very nasty dream; in it, he always saw how his friends were injured while he was standing there, watching helplessly, paralyzed with fear. Sometimes it was Otto, sometimes Twister, and this time the whole gang had been hurt.

When this bad dream reached the worst part, Sammy woke up and could not get to sleep anymore. He was very pale and sweating so profusely that his pajama was all soaked. It was still dark; he could not see clearly his watch because he had not his eyeglasses on, but it could have been between four and five in the morning. He was panting; the scary nightmare made him suffer yet another asthma attack. Sammy reached for the night table and took his medicine. He held the inhaler against his mouth and pressed it, taking a dose of medicine that helped him breathe again. Lately he had to do it more often than usual. The constant lack of air had made him weaker than ever, and if he usually had trouble keeping pace with Otto and Twister, now he could barely skate or ride his bike a little before having to stop to rest and take his medicine, with the constant laughs and puns from Twist and the despair of Otto.

Sammy knew very well that if he suffered an excessively severe attack, his mother would have to take him to the hospital for treatment. He did not want it; he was afraid of being in the hospital. He had the experience before, back in Kansas, and it was not a pleasant one. He hated particularly those thin plastic tubes the doctor inserted into his throat to inject oxygen directly to his lungs. Fortunately, so far, he had managed to control the seizures with his medicine, and his mother had arranged an appointment with his doctor the following week to see if he needed a new treatment.

Sammy rested his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, but to no use. He was wide-awake. The nightmare had left him so nervous that he could not think of anything else. Besides, he felt uncomfortable on his wet pajama, and his sheets were soaked in sweat. Sammy sat on his bed and tried again to see his clock, but it was useless; without his eyeglasses, all he could see were colored figures completely out of focus, so he reached for the table again and took his glasses. Once he had them on, he could see clearly again. The clock marked four forty-nine in the morning. Sammy was hot and uncomfortable, and he finally decided to take his pajama off. It was still too early, anyway, and nobody would see him wearing only his briefs. His friends were not to be up and around until eight, and he hoped to relax and catch a few moments of sleep before they arrived. He wished they were there, with him. He never told his mother when he was nervous because of a nightmare because he didn't want to worry her; but now he would give anything just to be with those kids that had become something very close to the siblings he never had. Sighing deeply, he went to the window and watched the night slowly slip away. He had too many worries for a ten-year-old boy.

Sammy kept a small radio by the window. It was an old FM walkman his father gave him the last time the boy was in the hospital, and Sam had kept it with him ever since. Sadness and depression had taken the place of fear and nervousness, so he turned the radio on. Maybe a little music could help him relax. He put the earphones on and shuffled through the stations, but could not find anything interesting. It was very early on a Sunday morning and most stations were still out of the air or broadcasting commercials. Sammy was about to turn off the radio when he found a station playing old records. The DJ announced an Alan Parson's Project song. The unmistakable hissing sound of a vinyl record came through the earphones. Sammy knew that song; the slow, sad rhythm matched exactly his mood.

"_Time keeps flowing like a river._

_Time beckoning me,_

_Who knows when we shall meet again?_

_If ever_

_But time_

_Keeps flowing like a river_

_To the sea"…_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Meanwhile, an old van with a trailer chugged laboriously up the California Incline, struggling to get to the top. It had just departed from one of the waterfront warehouses to nearby San José Market. A fishmonger by trade, the driver had just bought the cargo from the incoming boats and was hurrying to deliver the shrimp and sardines to the market; but the engine was too weak for that challenge and stalled in the middle of the hill.

Apart from that van, there were no other cars on the street, and the driver was thankful for that. Laboriously, carefully, he backed up to the nearest driveway and tried to turn the vehicle about. He was trying to descend the steep hill into the parking lot, so he could try to figure out how to start the engine again; but he hit the curb with one tire and stopped. The driver sighed; it seemed it was not to be his day. He applied the hand brake, opened the hood and descended from the van, not very excited by the prospect of fixing up that old engine with the van in such a precarious position. Inside the cabin, the radio was still on; curiously, the man was listening to the same station as Sammy.

"_Goodbye, my love, maybe for forever_

_Goodbye, my love. The tide waits for me..."_


	2. Chapter 2

_Yay! I got a review! Thanks a lot, Nick! Yeah, this is pretty much that old story, but it has been updated, enlarged, and amended. It will now include a little mobster action. That's the reason why I changed the rating to Teen. You'll find out more in this installment. Hope you all like it! Now, back to the story._

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sammy had grabbed a chair and was sitting by the window. He was feeling drowsy again, but was still too nervous to sleep. Besides, it was not long before dawn; although the sky was still dark, a lighter shade of blue began to appear over the horizon, announcing the beginning of a new day. When he was sad, Sammy liked to watch the sky and see the sun rising over the horizon. It always made him feel better; the beginning of a new day always promised a brighter tomorrow, and Sammy really enjoyed watching the dark sky become clearer and clearer until the sun appeared and illuminated everything back to life. He had discovered the magic of dawn recently; it was a very effective tranquilizer for him on the sleepless nights his asthma had afforded him lately.

The boy was contemplating the dawn when a couple of headlights appeared on the hill. Taking off his earphones, he recognized immediately the noisy engine of Tito's 1965 VW Microbus. The old van chugged up the hill and stopped by the Rocket's house.

Sammy smiled when he saw the old thing, remembering the story Tito himself had told him about it the day before. The colorful Hawaiian said that, in the good old days, during the late sixties and early seventies, he and Ray used the microbus to travel from beach to beach, carrying their surfboards on the roof and all kind of camping gear inside. They had painted the van in the hipster fashion, with lots of colorful flowers, peace signs and psychedelic motifs. With its oversize rear tires and a huge Peace symbol on the front, the old camper was known all over the place as the "green dream", and not precisely for its color. Even today, scraps of that paintwork were still visible on the sides, but now the old thing was the Shore Shack's delivery van, and Tito used it everyday to transport groceries to the restaurant. That's what the burly Hawaiian was doing at that early hour. He had just bought the fish on the pier and was picking up Ray before heading to the wholesale market to buy the meat, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, sodas and bread. It was a weekly routine for the two old friends.

Sammy watched as Ray got out of his house, clad as usual with shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. He greeted Tito and, after locking the front door, climbed into the odd vehicle. Tito started the old but reliable engine and turned about. The headlights illuminated the street again, and with its characteristic noise, the colorful van resumed its voyage.

When they passed in front of Sammy's house, Ray saw the boy sitting by his window. He was taking his medicine again; the paleness on his face was evident, even under the dim light of the dawn. Tito and Ray waved their hands to Sammy, and the boy responded their salute, smiling.

"It looks like Sammy had another bad night tonight, eh, Tito?"

"Definitely, bruddah" – replied Tito in his markedly Hawaiian accent.

"I'm worried about him. Paula told me yesterday that his medicine hasn't been working well anymore. Poor Sammy has had a hard time with his asthma lately. I've seen him up like today at least four times this week, and each time he looks paler and thinner. Maybe it's me, bro, but I think the boy is getting sicker."

"I've noticed that too, bruddah. Sammy is definitely thinner and weaker than ever. I am worried about him."

"We all are, Tito. We all are."

Tito nodded affirmatively, and turned on the radio. He was truly concerned about Sam; he had seen how difficult it was for the boy to keep pace with the rest of the kids, and the cruel jokes that Twister and Otto made of him. He reprimanded the two boys and told them to stop bugging Sammy, but they were picking on him again shortly after.

"_Goodbye, my friends, maybe for forever_

_Goodbye, my friends. The stars wait for me._

_Who knows where we shall meet again...?"_

"Wow! Where's the funeral, Tito? Why the sad song?"

"I'm sorry, bruddah. It's the only station transmitting music at this hour."

"Don't you have something merrier?"

"Well… I think I have a cassette with Janis somewhere…"

"Groovy! The Hipster Queen, Janis Joplin! Let's hear it, bro!"

"Ok. Suit yourself…"

Tito opened the glove box and pulled a tape. After inserting it on the radio, a raspy female voice began to sing.

"_You say that it's over, baby._

_You say that it's over now,_

_But still you hang around me, come on,_

_Won't you move over? ..."_

"This is more like it, brother!" - said Ray, snapping his fingers and keeping the tempo with his foot.

"I'm glad you like it, bruddah."

"This song brings back a lot of memories, brother. Remember that day in Malibu, when those girls began singing and belly-dancing around the fire?"

"(Oh, God! Here we go again!) Yes, bruddah…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Things were not going well for the driver of the decrepit van that stalled on the California Incline, and he cursed while he tried to wrestle the rusted spark plugs out of the old engine. This man, a former surfer-turned-fisherman-turned-fishmonger, was known only as "Old Harris". He was a slender, tall man of about fifty years of age, not precisely clean, with long, shaggy grey hair and beard. He wore a stained pair of Levi's jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and old brown boots. He was not a very popular figure among surfers, mainly because he was a notoriously sarcastic and ungrateful person. In the old days, these qualities had cost him the friendship of most of the surfers, and those who still spoke to him, like Tito and Ray, did so in honouring the aloha spirit of friendship with every creature of the universe.

He was a heavy drinker and an inveterate gambler. His wife had divorced him the previous year and left for Cape Cod, Massachusetts, taking their daughter and most of their belongings with her. Shortly after the man received a letter from her lawyer, informing him he had been sued for not providing for his daughter's needs. The long and expensive divorce left him in bankruptcy and soon he was forced to live in his old fishing boat, ironically called "the Abundance", a rusted and derelict trawler that was permanently moored in the marina because Harris couldn't pay for repairs. Besides, his fishing permit had expired and the Coast Guard required him to fix his boat and replace the broken radio in order to allow him to work in the fisheries again, and to top it all, his former crew had abandoned him and were now on board of another boat, working for a captain who actually paid them.

But those were mere inconveniences to him. Right now, Old Harris had other, more urgent troubles to worry about. After the divorce, he fell in a spiral of gambling, alcohol and drugs, until he literally hit the bottom. He had lots of debts, product of his frequent incursions to illegal casinos owned by the local mobster boss, Don Luchese, a cheap version of the Godfather that nevertheless made guys like Hoffa look like boy scouts. At first, it seemed that Harris could actually beat the casinos, making a couple thousand dollars one night, but soon his luck changed and he started losing over and over again, until he owed the Don more than he could possibly pay.

So, basically, he had sold his soul to the devil. He had been forced to make weekly payments to the casino, and he knew he better made them in time, unless he wanted to have his legs broken. Soon he started getting behind in his payments, and then he started receiving threatening phone calls and messages demanding him to pay his debts. He even received a couple of visits from the Don's henchmen, and they always told him the same: pay your dues or else.

That's what happened earlier that morning. He was stepping out of his boat when he saw two men dressed in black coming towards him. He shuddered when he recognized them as Mick McGuire, a tall, blond bearded, imposing and frighteningly brawny figure in a black beanie and matching sweater, Don Luchese's lieutenant, and Andreas Broodie, a rattish fellow in thick glasses and leather cap, which belied his credentials as a notorious gunman. Harris stopped cold as the two goons faced him.

"Good morning, Harris. Long time no see." – said McGuire.

"H…. hi."

"Don Luchese wants to know what happened to you this week, Harris. We didn't see you in our office."

"Well… see… I… had some trouble getting the money, folks…"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know Don Luchese doesn't like to hear excuses like that, Harris."

"I… I know; but I swear I couldn't make the money in time! My van broke again last night and I couldn't make it to the market to sell the fish. I'm only 100 bucks short of the sum, and I'm getting them today, as soon as I take a load of sardines to the market… Please, give me a chance to collect the money… I'll pay Don Luchese today, I promise… It's the first time in months that I'm late with the payments…"

"All right, all right" – interrupted Broodie. - "Relax, Harris. We're only here to remind you of your dues. Take it easy; we'll be waiting for you today, after you sell your fish. But don't take too long; Don Luchese is a patient man, but even his patience has limits."

"Thank you! Thank you! I'll be there in time, I promise!"

"I know you will, Harris. And just to make sure you won't forget your appointment, there's a reminder for you inside your van."

The two men grinned evilly as they boarded a black Buick parked nearby. Harris stood in his place, petrified with fear, while the driver started the engine. He didn't dare to move until he saw the Buick disappear towards town.

Harris walked cautiously to his van, which was parked right by the pier. He walked around it, looking carefully to it, but everything was just as he had left it the day before. It was not until he opened the driver's door that he saw the message.

Harris gagged and turned in disgust at the sight. Inside the van, on the driver's seat, was the body of a small cat that had been visiting him for a couple of weeks. The animal had a noose on its neck, and a piece of paper with the words "don't be late!" between the lips.

Harris fell to his knees and cried. It took him a while to force himself to take the dead cat out of his van, and he was shaking when he left the marina. Although really scared, he knew better than calling the cops. He proceeded to the piers and bought a whole load of sardines and shrimp, and then headed for the market. Luckily, he would get to the market before their opening time, and set the price for the fish. That would give him a nice profit, 700 dollars or so, enough to complete this week's payment and get some money to survive.

But his old Ford Econoline had other plans, and it stalled on the Incline, barely one mile from the piers.

Harris looked at his watch and cursed again. The market had already opened. He would have to hurry if he wanted to sell his fish and earn a profit on them. Mumbling obscenities under his breath, he cleaned the spark plugs and tried desperately to start the engine.


	3. Chapter 3

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Tito drove up North Street and took the exit to Lincoln Boulevard, then northwest until Interstate 10. The wholesale market was just outside Santa Monica, about 20 Kilometers from Ocean Shores, a distance that took about half an hour for the old van to cover. Those box-shaped cars were never intended for high speeds, and with thirty-something years above its wheels, the "green dream" was not precisely a speed demon. They arrived to the market well past its opening time of 5:30 a.m.

Fortunately for Tito, who had to endure Ray's flashbacks all the way from Ocean Shores, he had placed his order in advance with their regular supplier, so it was just a matter of loading the groceries into the van. In minutes almost half a ton of assorted products found its way into Tito's van and by 6:15 a.m. the two friends were leaving the wholesale market, heading for their hometown.

If the empty van took thirty minutes to cover the distance between Ocean Shores and the Santa Monica Wholesale Market, loaded with the week supply of groceries required well over forty. It was some minutes after seven when they abandoned Lincoln Boulevard and entered Ocean Shores.

"It's getting a little late, Tito. I'm supposed to meet with the kids around eight and take them to the parking lot."

"Ah, yes. Had forgotten; the little cuzzes have their match today with Lars and the other juvenile delinquents, right?"

"Yeah; those brats are really in for a lesson today. The kids have been practicing hard; I'm sure it will be a very interesting match."

"Me too, bruddah. Will the little cuz Sammy play too?"

"Well, he said yesterday he didn't want to let Lars get away with his jokes. Besides, the exercise is good for him; his doctor always tells him to take part in every sport he likes because that helps strengthen his lungs. I'm sure that, if he feels well, he will team up with the kids today."

"I'll be glad to se that, bruddah. Don't worry; we are near the California Incline; I'll take it to arrive faster to the Shack. We can unload the van and, while I sort things up at the freezer, you can go for the kids. I'll catch up with you guys in time for the match."

"Yeah! Good thinking, Tito. Let's do it."

Tito turned right and headed for the California Incline. The traffic lights were already working; a red light made Tito stop just at the top of the incline. The two friends had in front of them a magnificent view of the bay and the pier; beyond, the blue Pacific Ocean shone brightly under the yellow morning sky. Somewhere around the middle of the incline stood a white van with the hood open; the same van that had stalled there when still dark.

"Look, Tito! It seems that old Harris has trouble with his engine again."

"It's the second time this week, bruddah. Last Wednesday I saw him just like that outside Mike's shop. That engine is crying for a full tune up; but Harris is such a cheap guy that he doesn't want to buy a set of spark plugs."

"Well, he's in our way. Maybe we can stop by and see if he needs some help."

"All right, bruddah."

The traffic light turned green, and Tito drove carefully down the California Incline. When the "green dream" arrived in front of old Harris' van, Tito stopped and cranked down his window.

"Need any help, cuz?"

"Oh, Hi, Tito, Ray! No, thanks; I can manage."

"Are you sure? That engine seems to be in big trouble…"

"Nah. Old engines need old tricks to keep running, bro. You must know that; you keep that old shell working after all these years."

Tito noticed that old Harris had the distributor cap in one hand and a worn-out piece of sandpaper in the other.

"And what kind of tricks are you using this time, cuz?" – asked Tito, pointing to the sandpaper.

"Oh, this!" – Said old Harris – "Well, you know that points and spark plugs tend to carbonize over time. I just sanded them clean. This way I can keep them working indefinitely."

"It sounds very risky, Harris. It might cause a short circuit and kill your engine for good. Don't you think it would be easier to buy a new set of points and spark plugs, and do a tune up to the engine from time to time?"

"Oh, no! I can't afford that! Don't you know how expensive those parts are, huh?"

"I do. About twenty bucks, tops. Less than a bottle of bourbon" – said Ray with sarcasm.

"Oh... Nevermind; I just finished. Just give me one moment to put this thing back on, and you'll see how this kitten starts purring again."

The two friends looked at each other while old Harris put the distributor cap on. Then, slamming the hood closed, he went back into the cab and tried to start the engine. After a couple of failed attempts, the engine finally started with a bang (literally!), making an ominous black cloud come out of the exhaust.

"You see, folks? It's alive! Well, now I leave you; I'm late. I have to deliver these fish before they stink… more. See ya, fellows!"

Old Harris pressed the clutch and, after a couple of screeching attempts to gear first, he started moving again, leaving a black, oil-smelling cloud behind him.

"That guy is a real character!" – said Tito.

"I agree, brother. And he is a menace, too. One of these days he's gonna cause an accident, with his van in such a poor mechanical condition."

"And he dares call our "green dream" an old shell!"

"Let's go, brother. It's getting late."

Tito geared first and started moving again. Five minutes later, they arrived in front of the Shore Shack and by 7:20 began unloading the "green dream".


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 2**

Sammy was feeling somewhat better. The hot sensation was gone, and he had stopped sweating and panting. The boy turned off the radio and saw the clock: seven in the morning. His friends would be calling him up in about an hour. In fact, he had just seen lights shining in his friends' houses. He even got a glimpse of Reggie as she opened her window, so he had to hurry. Since he was already undressed, he could go directly to the shower. Taking fresh clothes from his closet, he crossed the hall to the bathroom.

He showered calmly. The cool water felt great as it refreshed his body and washed the sweat away. Maybe he had fever during the night; that would explain the abundant sweating and the hot, burning feeling all over his body. It might also explain the vividness of the nightmare and the overall weakness he felt.

When he finished bathing, he got dressed and headed for his room to prepare his equipment. When he went out of the bathroom, his mother called him from her bedroom.

"Already up, honey?"

"Yep" – replied Sammy, cheerfully - "Good morning, mom."

Sammy went to kiss his mother. She was still in her bed, but had been awake for a while, reading a book. She kissed her son and watched him; his face was still a bit pale, but he seemed animated, feeling reasonably well; still, like any mother, Mrs. Dullard had a sixth sense to notice when something was not quite well with her son.

"You feel right, Sammy?"

"Yes, mom. Don't worry."

"But you look pale. Are you OK?"

Mrs. Dullard tried to touch Sam's forehead and cheeks to gauge his body temperature; but Sammy gently evaded her. He knew that if she felt he had fever, she would not let him go out with his friends, and he really needed to be with the kids that day.

"Yes, mom. Don't worry; I'm fine."

She looked at Sam. She was not quite convinced; she knew that Sammy had been having asthma attacks all week long. But the boy reassured her that he was fine, and she believed him.

"You rose early this morning, Sammy. Why?"

"Well, I woke up and just could not sleep again. I am very excited because today is the great game I had told you about, you know…"

"Oh, yes! The street hockey game with your friends, right?"

"Yep. We have to be in the parking lot at eight, eight thirty to warm up."

"Wow! Then you better hurry. I'll prepare your breakfast. They are coming for you, right?"

"Yes. Mr. Rocket will drive us there."

"Ok. In that case, you better go to your room and prepare your things. I'll fix you something to eat."

"Thank you, mom."

"And don't forget your inhaler!"

"Don't worry. I always carry it with me."

Mrs. Dullard rose and put a coat on. She went to the kitchen and prepared a light breakfast for herself and her son. She was worried; something told her that Sammy was not completely fine that morning; besides, she had a bad feeling when the boy kissed her. Maybe… No; she was just nervous. She should try to think in something else.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The morning was setting things in motion at the Rockets' house too. This was to be a great day. As usual, Lars and his Lasers had challenged the Rockets to a street hockey match, and the kids had accepted it with characteristic enthusiasm. This was going to be an official match for the local street hockey league, and it would be broadcasted live from the parking lot. For that reason, they had to be there early. They planned to go surfing after the game.

Otto and Reggie were up since about six thirty. They had breakfast and were cleaning their rooms while Ray was away. The two kids were very excited, especially Otto, who looked forward to show off some new moves he had been preparing for this special occasion. He was confident; they had been practicing hard for weeks and, save for Sam, all the kids were in prime condition for that game.

"What worries me," he said to Reggie while making his bed, "is the Squid. He's been very slow and distracted lately. I hope he'll remember that a goalie needs to be concentrated on the game and not on his laptop computer, for a change."

"Leave him alone, Otto," responded his sister. "It's not like he does it on purpose. Besides, remember that Sammy has been ill; his asthma has worsened; that's why he's had to slow down a bit. But yesterday he said he felt better, and I think he will perform well in the game. He isn't called Sam 'Stonewall' Dullard for nothing, y'know."

"Yeah. I know, Reg; even I must concede that. Sammy might be a lousy skater and surfer, but he's one heck of a good goalie. I just don't wanna lose to those jerks; I've been working on some new moves and I wanna try 'em out."

"Why worry, then? If I know you, Otto, you won't let 'em within ten meters of our goal," Reg reassured her brother. "They'll be too busy with their meager brain power trying to figure out just how to stop you! And you know you can count on me too. I want to teach Lars a lesson, so he stops calling me a lame-o. We'll keep pushing forward; they won't even get to the middle of the field, right?"

"Yeah. You're right, Reg," Otto said with newly buoyed spirit. "If we keep on the attack, the Lasers won't have a chance to get to the goal, and Sammy won't have to do all that much. Good thinking, sis!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The day was also beginning for Twister, although not in the most comfortable way. Lars had just entered his room and caught Twist in his bed, and, as usual, gave him the good morning salute with a rigorous whomping session. Although Twister fought back in earnest, his older brother easily rendered him helpless, and after a very short fight, the freckled boy was pinned face down on his bed, with his wrists and ankles held fast behind his back by Lars, like in those cartoons where a clumsy cowboy is tied down by a calf in a rodeo. Lars took off Twister's cap and began rubbing his fist on the boy's head. He really enjoyed bullying his younger brother, but very deep inside he actually cared for him… particularly when he was bored.

"So you Rocket dorks think you'll beat us today?" – Said Lars while whomping his brother.

"Oow! You better believe it, Lars!" – Responded Twister, desperately trying to free himself from his brother's grip - "we'll kick your butt at the match!"

"We'll see that, lame-o" – replied Lars, rubbing Twist's head harder.

"Oooow! Stop that! It hurts!"

"Aaaw! The baby boy is about to cry!" - responded Lars in singsong.

"That's enough, Lars! Get off me!"

"Never!"

"MOM!"

"Shut up, chicken liver!"

"What's going on up there?" – asked Mrs. Rodriguez from the kitchen.

"Nothing, mom! We're just playing" – replied Lars hypocritically.

"Are we?" - asked Twister, shyly.

"Shush!" - replied Lars, letting go abruptly of Twister, who was pulling back in an attempt to escape.

"Whoa!" – cried Twist, falling from the bed on his butt. – "Ooow!"

"You better behave, boys! And come down for breakfast; you'll be late for your game!"

"We're coming, mom!" - Answered Lars. – "Saved by the bell again" – said to Twister, helping him up. – "I can't believe how lucky little worms like you can be!"

"I'm not little!" – replied Twister pitifully while rubbing his sore behind.

"Oh… Ok; BIG worms like you! HA, HA, HA!"

"Tarado!" - said the boy under his breath.

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?" – Thundered Lars, bending Twist's left arm behind his back.

"Ooow! Nothing! I said nothing!"

"That's better. Let's go down for breakfast, dude. We have a hockey match to get to."


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you for your reviews, Nick. I'm glad you're liking this new version of the fic. In this chapter you'll know more about that sinister character, and his association with a certain notorious bully. Talking about bad influences and strong motivations… hope you all like it!_

-.-.-.-.-.-

Meanwhile, a certain black Buick was driving on Lincoln Boulevard towards Ocean Bluffs. They crossed the fence of a large mansion on a lonely street, overlooking the pier. The car pulled over by the main entrance, and all its occupants, save for the driver, stepped out. They entered the house and headed for the studio.

"Everything is ready, boss" - said the leader of the group, Broodie, to a certain character who was sitting behind his desk - "We gave Harris the message... and took care of the _...other_ issue, as you instructed us."

"You did, eh? Very resourceful," said the old man in white, who was none other than Don Luchese. "What's your estimate of the... time for the event?" he asked.

"Well... I'd say, one, one and a half hours at most, milord. He will have this... shocking experience while on his way to the Santa Monica Market. In the highway. It will be a... very tragic accident, and with his van in such a notoriously bad shape, no one will suspect there was foul play involved. He will become just another number in the statistics."

"I don't want errors, Broodie."

"Don't worry, sire. This can't fail. There are three little devices on his van; I planted them myself. The moment he reaches 60 miles an hour, the devices will go off, blasting his brakes, steering and transmission. There's no way he can control his van after that. And the damage to the parts will most likely be atributed to the crash or to the poor maintenance the stiff gave to his ride."

"Ya know, I'm not entirely of one mind about this. But a great man once said, eggs must be broken to serve breakfast. Once Harris meets his untimely death, we'll seize his belongings as preferred creditors, right, Antonio?" - asked the Don to his accountant, a thin man with thick glasses who was sitting at his right.

"That's correct, sire. All the documents are ready; I'll file them in court the moment the cops return a report on the... _occurrence._ You'll take posession of that old tub and all its contents this evening, or some time very early tomorrow, at the latest."

"Good. I like it when things go smoothly. Now, tell me; what would the foreclosure value be for the Abundance? Twenty, thirty grand?" - asked the Don.

"Something like that, sire" - said the accountant - "Enough to pay for Harris' debts, _and_ still make a profit."

"Good, good. All we have to do now is listen to the dispatch scanner. But I wish there was something else to do until the... event."

"Hmm... Well, there's this street hockey game..." - said Broodie - "I seem to remember that the team you're financing was playing against a bunch of really promising kids... we arranged it to be broadcasted via public access TV and AM radio."

"Oh! Really? The bambinos play today? Good! I'd almost wanna go outside and watch it... What's that kid's name, by the way? Lorenzo?"

"Lars, sire. Lars Rodriguez. He's a Spanic..." - snarled Broodie with disdain.

"A Latino..." - provided the accountant without rising his eyes from his books - "From Mexico, I believe..."

"Oh, I don't care about his origins, gentlemen, as long as he and his team win for me. It makes me proud. Besides, sponsoring him is a very good, easy, and inexpensive way to build a respectable image for our businesses, particularly that sports clothing and accesories store... what's it called, Antonio?"

"SnoMart, sire."

"Yeah, that one. Nobody suspects we're using it to launder dirty money and I like it that way. Damn; I would like to go there and see the game, but we have to pay attention to the dispatches pn the police frequency. So, let's do the next best thing, and watch it on the tv, shall we?" he invited. His men nodded. The Don pressed a button on his intercom.

"Pierre? Salami, cheese, bread, and... uh, beer and pretzels for my men here. Pronto!" he commanded.

Minutes later a door opened and a uniform-clad waiter entered the room, pushing a cart with various beverages and other stuff. He put it in the middle of the room and started serving Don Luchese and his men.

"Want me to turn on the TV, milord?" - the waiter asked.

"Grazia, grazia!" The Don said, as he and his men took their rest in easy chairs around a flatscreen TV that was as big as a mattress.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was five past eight when Sammy got out of his house. Otto and Reggie were already out, practicing some passes. Twister was also coming; his brother had left moments before to join Pi, Sputz and Animal.

The four friends reunited in the Rockets' backyard, as usual. Twister was still rubbing his left shoulder, which was a bit tender after Lars' whomping; but all in all, the kids were ready for action.

"Woogie, woogie, woogie!" – said the kids, wiggling their fingers in their trademark salutation.

"Good morning, Twist, Sam! Are you ready to rumble?" – asked Otto.

"Definitely ready to go, Ottoman!" – answered Twister, giving Otto a high five.

"Squid-man reports ready to defeat the enemy; team Rocket!" – replied Sammy, giving also a high five to Reggie.

"What happened to your shoulder, bro?" – asked Otto, pointing to Twister's arm.

"Nothing serious, Ottoman. Lars and I had our regular morning battle and he sprained my arm… the usual stuff, you know."

"How rude! That brother of yours is a real savage, Twist!" – said Reggie.

"Nah. I'm used to it, Rocket girl; it would be very weird if he treated me differently. It wouldn't be... normal."

Twister stuck out his tongue in a very mischievous grin that made the kids laugh heartedly.

"Anyway" - he continued, seeing Ray's 1948 Ford "woody" station wagon still in the garage - "where is Raymundo? It's getting late"

"Well… it's Sunday; I guess Tito and Dad went to the market for supplies. They do it every week." – answered Reggie.

"He'll be here on time. Let's warm up while we wait." – said Otto, skating in circles around his friends.

"Yeah!"

The children began a warm-up routine that Otto himself had devised. The boy was a natural, gifted sportsman, and had no difficulty at all finding ways to make himself and his friends every day more proficient on the extreme sports they liked. Even Sammy had improved notably his surfing and skating abilities under Otto's guidance and not-so-patient advice.

-.-.-.-.-

"The lil' rascals want to see you, milord!" - Said an attendant from the door. Don Luchese nodded, and the attendant stepped away, letting Lars and the Lasers in the room.

"You called us, Luchese?" - asked Lars insolently. Broodie frowned; that boy really needed to learn some manners. He would love to give him a lesson, but the Don was enthused with that teen and his bunch of hoodlums. He gave a stern look to Lars, and the boy returned it defiantly.

"Yes, my son" - said the Don, not noticing, or more exactly ignoring the teen's insolence and his little duel with the lieutenant - "I just wanted to wish you luck in the game. I've heard this boy, Otto, is a very good player..."

"That shrimp!" - said Lars, interrupting the Don and causing Broodie to frown again - "He's just a little sea urchin and I'll make sushi with him, you'll see! Neither he nor his bunch of barnacles will know what hit them!"

"That's the spirit, my son!" - chuckled the Don, noticing Broodie's reaction to the teen - "But don't underestimate your adversaries. A wise man knows that there are no small enemies. And I have to tell you: I've been watching them, particularly Otto and that goalie of them, 'stonewall' Dullard. Maybe I should hire them to play with you in the state championship, instead of those two Bozos of yours..." - said the Don, pointing to a blushing Sputz and Animal and making Broodie grin mockingly.

"Pfft!" - Lars scoffed - "First they have to finish this game in one piece! Mark my words, Luchese, and you, Broodie: when this game is over, there will be at least one new guest in the hospital!"

Lars marked his threat with his trademark evil laugh, making Luchese smile in satisfaction. Even Broodie cracked half a smile: perhaps the brat had some future in the organization, after all.

"Good." - the Don said - "That's what I wanted to hear. Now, go, Lorenzo, and win that game for SnoMart!"

"Argh! Lars! my name is Lars, you dork!"

"Yeah, whatever" - said the Don waving a hand dismissively and pressing a button on his desk. Almost immediately, the attendant entered the room.

"Luca will drive you to the game" - said the Don nodding to the attendant, who also was the driver of the black Buick - "But before that you'll stop in the shop and pick new uniforms. Now, go, and win for me."

Lars and his goons nodded and followed the driver out of the room. They crossed paths in the aisle with Mick McGuire, the hitman. The man stopped and put a hand on Lars' shoulder, grinning crookedly.

"I put my money on you, guys" - he said - "don't let me down!"

Everyone but Lars shuddered.

"Don't worry, McGuire" - said Lars with the same crooked smile - "So did I. This game is _ours!" _

Inside the room, Don Luchese and Broodie saw this little scene. When the kids left behind Luca, the lieutenant turned to the boss.

"I still can't see why you like that kid Lars so much. He's just a bitchy lil' son of a gun!" - said Broodie with a snarl.

"Well" - answered the Don, ignoring the remark - "Call it 'paternal instinct', if you like. I was just like that boy when I was his age. Besides, he has all it takes to be an important member of our organization, so you better treat him well; who knows? You might end up working for _him_ one day."


	6. Chapter 6

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Raymundo arrived at the house at 8:15 a.m. He found the children all revved up, finishing their warm-up routine. When they saw him, they all skated to him.

"Greetings, brother Mundo!" – said Twister.

"Good morning, Raymundo" – said the rest of the gang.

"Good morning, children! Sorry I'm late; I had to help Tito get out of the freezer. He was sorting the supplies when the door slammed closed. You should have seen him! He looked like an icicle when I finally opened it! It was hilarious!"

Otto and Reggie looked at each other. A mischievous smile appeared on their faces; knowing their dad, most probably it was him the one who got stuck in the freezer.

"Well, kids, let's go. It's time for the game."

The children got in the car and Ray started the engine. Although his station wagon was of a very old model, Ray had refurbished it when he bought it, long before the children were born, and had kept it in prime mechanical condition ever since. The car was full of cherished memories for Ray, among them the tender moments he spent camping in it with Danielle, his late wife, and he wasn't ever getting rid of it.

Ray headed for the parking lot. It was a short trip, about three kilometers long; nevertheless, Ray turned on the radio and inserted a tape.

"I just borrowed this tape from Tito, kids. I'm sure you'll like it!"

The children were expectant, anxious to listen to Tito's tape. They knew that Tito liked very much the same kind of music as they did; but their expectation turned into disbelief when they heard the first song on the tape:

"_All the leaves are brown_

_And the sky is gray…"_

"Well? What you think? Ain't that groovy? The Mamas and the Papas, one of the greatest bands of my youth!"

"Wow! Is it that old!" – said Twister both innocently and awed.

"Twister!" – said Reggie, poking his ribs with the elbow.

"Oooow! Whaaat?"

"In fact, that band was formed in 1964 by John Phillips, 'Mama' Cass Elliott, Denny Doherty and Michelle Phillips. They released 'California Dreamin' in 1966…"

As usual, Sammy seemed to have a permanent high-speed, wireless connection to the Internet inside his head, and was able to access all kinds of information from the major search engines anytime, wherever he was.

"Thank you, Squid" – interrupted Otto, bored – "We don't want to listen to the History Channel right now. Really, dad, don't you have something newer… say… from this century?"

"Why? Don't you like The Mamas and the Papas? But they're so groovy!"

"Sure, dad! They are… interesting; but we'd like to hear something heavier, you know, to get in the mood…" – intervened Reggie. She always knew how to use politics to soften her brother's incisive comments.

"Oh, well!" – Said Ray – "I guess every generation is bound to have its own tastes. Let's see what's on the radio."

Ray removed the tape from the radio and began shuffling the knob.

"Any station in particular you wanna hear, kids?"

"YEAH! KROQ! PUT IT ON KROQ!" – replied all the children at the same time. That station is very popular in Southern California because it transmits the latest musical novelties.

"OK, OK; I'm coming, don't yell anymore!"

Ray selected 106.7 megahertz on the FM radio, and a popular song from the Red Hot Chili Peppers came through the loudspeakers.

"Can't stop addicted to the shin dig

Cop top he says I'm gonna win big…"

"OH, YEAH!" - The children yelled in excitement; that was the kind of music they liked.

Ray heard them singing to the music and smiled. He was both nostalgic and happy. He really enjoyed seeing his children and their friends having so much fun together. He liked Sam and Twister very much; they were loyal friends to his children and had earned a place in his heart. Ray looked through the rearview mirror to see the kids chattering on the rear seats. It was a joyous scene for Ray, but something caught his eye when he saw Sammy; it was as if a halo of light was forming around the boy's head. Ray looked again, but the curious effect was gone; the only thing he could see was that Sammy was still pale, although not as much as he was in the morning.

"Maybe it was my imagination" – he thought.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The team arrived at the Shore Shack some minutes past 8:30. Ray drove down the ramp and parked in front of the sports store he also owned; he was the official sponsor of Team Rocket, and the kids always used Rocket gear on their games, which gave them a professional look.

"OK, kids!" – said Ray, opening the door. "Get ready. You have a match in 30 minutes. Oh! Almost forgot it! There's something for you in your lockers".

Ray saw the children run to the dressing room; a mischievous smile was on his face. He had prepared a surprise for them; the kids had been doing very well lately, not only at sports, but also at school. Even Twister had just surprised everyone with a very nice B+ grade on his latest exam, in good part thanks to Sammy's constant after-school support to the gang; the children had made a good habit of going to the Shore Shack every afternoon after play and spend a couple of hours there studying and doing their homework. Their parents were really proud of them, and they all agreed with Ray that the children definitely deserved a small reward.

"WOOOW! SUPER! THANK YOU, RAYMUNDO!" – the childred cried excitedly from the back of the store; they had just opened their lockers and found their reward: a brand new hockey set and uniform for each one.

"There's nothing to thank, kids!" – Said Ray, gleefully. "You've earned it. You've made all of us very happy with your grades and your good performance in every aspect of your life. I'm very proud of every one of you! Keep up with that good job! Now, hurry; it's almost time for the game. We'll be cheering you from the grades. Go, Rockets!"

"Will? Who's Will?" – asked Twister, scratching his scalp, making Ray to chuckle. That boy was a real case!

"Not Will, Twister. We. Your biggest fans. Me, Tito, your parents, Sammy's mom, and all the friends from Ocean Shores. We wouldn't miss this game for nothing!"

"Ooooh... I get it!" - said Twister, grinning - "But then again, who is Will?"

Everybody rolled their eyes (Otto even slapped his forehead); evidently Twister didn't get it.

"Nevermind, Twist" – said Reggie, chuckling and patting him on the shoulder – "We can't make the audience wait. I'm taking over the girls' room; you go to the boy's room and change. We'll meet here in ten minutes,OK?"

"¡A la orden, chica Rocket!" - replied Twister, saluting military-style. He sometimes seemed to have seen too many movies. The children rushed to change while Raymundo left for the grades.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Inside the dressing room, Otto, Twister and Sammy were changing clothes into their new uniforms. Otto and Sammy were standing in front of their lockers, and had just taken off their shirts. The healthy suntan on Otto's skin contrasted markedly with Sam's paleness. He always had a very light-colored skin; in fact, it didn't matter how much he sunbathed; he would merely get a reddened skin for a while but never a permanent tan. But during the last week, Sammy was paler than usual, and that fueled Twister's puns.

"Look, Ottoman!" – Said Twister to his friend, pointing to Sammy – "There's a raw squid standins by you! What, are we making ceviche with him?"

"No way, man! I can't imagine eating that; seems a bit too gross! Yuk!" – replied Otto with a grin.

"Ho, ho. Very funny, guys!" - said Sam, slightly annoyed.

"Really, Squid" - continued Twister - "We have to do something about your paleness!"

"Yeah! Hey, Twist, maybe Sam is a vampire! Have you noticed the bags under his eyes?"

"Hmm... I don't know, Ottoman. I've seen him on the beach during dayligth, and he eats a lot of garlic each time we go to the Shack... Hey! I know! Perhaps he is a ghost! He's that milky white! Booooo!"

"Yeah; but ghosts don't eat like he does, brother!" – said Otto, patting Sam's belly.

"That's not funny, man!" – replied Sammy, removing Otto's hand from his tummy.

"Chill, Squid! We're just joking" – said Twister.

"I know, guys; but you can be so annoying sometimes…" – replied Sammy, putting his shirt on.

"Seriously, Sam. You're paler than ever. Are you sure you are OK?" – said Otto. – "Imagine, even Twister noticed!"

"Yeah!" – said twister, innocently – "Huh?" - He didn't get the pun; Sam and Otto rolled their eyes and continued the conversation.

"Nothing serious, Ottoman. I just haven't slept well lately. That's all." – answered Sammy, placing his street clothes in the locker. He didn't notice that his inhaler was left inside his jeans' pocket. - "Anyway," – he continued, closing his locker and walking out of the dressing room with the boys to reunite with Reggie – "in this moment I really feel like playing hockey with you, guys. I wouldn't be anywhere else; I can't wait to see how you kick Lars' butt!"

"Yeah! That's the spirit!" – replied Otto.

"¡No hay problema, brother!" – Added Twister, grinning – "We'll make them bite the dust. It's a promise!"

"Hello! Stop chattering, boys!" – Interrupted Reggie, who was already waiting for them outside the store – "Those jerks are already in the field, and we must hurry to meet them!

"C'mon, sis! Better say you're anxious to mop the floor with them!" – said Otto, winking to his sister.

"Well…" – answered Reggie, returning mischievously Otto's sign.

"Ok, Team Rocket! Let's go get them!" – said Sammy, extending his hand inviting the kids to their salute.

"Team Rocket! Woogie, woogie, woogie!" – replied all the children.


End file.
